The Boy Who Died
by Dacara
Summary: Harry Potter died that quiet night when the Dark Lord raided the Godric's Hollow. He was murdered, but not by Voldemort as all seems to think...What's going to happen when both the Dark Lord and the Savior come back with vengeance?
1. Chapter 1

The Boy Who Died

Prologue: Watching eyes

Fandom: Harry Potter

Rating: M

Warnings: Character Death, Torture, slight insanity, angst, blood, violence, creatures, slash, yaoi, AU

Summary: Harry Potter died that quiet night when the Dark Lord raided the Godric's Hollow. He was murdered, but not by Voldemort as all seems to think... What's going to happen to the Wizarding World when both the Dark Lord and the Savior come back and both of them are back with vengeance?

Beta: Contra Mundi

The night air was hot and stale, silence broken only by quiet rustling of the grass and the crickets hiding somewhere beneath the blades on the large front law of Godric's Hollow. The house was silent, the reassuring shimmering of the wards gone, broken but a few minutes ago. The Dead black windows of the house stared mutely at the peaceful neighborhood, awaiting the return of its inhabitants.

Somewhere inside, the stairs creaked. Old teak wood groaned yet again when the man climbed them, his palm sliding along the railing, pale fingers tracing invisible patterns, long fingernails tapping from time to time, causing the low sound to echo in the long staircase. When the man reached the second floor, he let his hand fall limp by his side, the other twirling his wand restlessly. The Pale shine of the_ lumos_ charm had long gone, put out when he had entered the house- he didn't need the light to see in the dim surroundings, his red eyes were more than enough for this simple task.

For a moment he stood still, like a hunting dog sniffing after his prey, then turned left and approached the door at the end of the corridor, dodging some toys scattered on the floor. The door was slightly ajar and needed only a small push to swing fully open. The room was medium-sized, walls lined with rows of colorful boxes, no doubt holding toys. In the far corner, near one of the windows, stood a white closet. The bright carpet with symmetrical patterns was even messier than the floor in the corridor, toys, pieces of clothing and a book or two, successfully turning it into an obstacle course. In front of the door the man was standing in, between two screened windows, there stood a crib with small side-table with a dim night-lamp on.

Inside the cradle lay a small boy, barely"a year old. He looked deathly pale in the weak light, black hair and long eyelashes in sharp contrast with his sickly skin with the net of blue veins underneath. The Petite body clad in red and gold rompers was covered in a blanket, shielding him from the chilly air of the July night. The baby lied on his back, small fists clenched under his chin, plump bluish lips half-open with a small bubble of drool in one corner of his mouth. The Baby's eyelids twitched from time to time, muscles in the corner of his right eye contracting when he dreamt, but his body remained immobile.

The tall man watched him for a long while. His face was set in a thoughtful scowl", eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He was recalling the errant verses of the prophecy which marked this small boy as the reason of his downfall. With a sight he raised his wand and whispered: '_Avada kedavra_'.

And then he saw it. Before the curse could reach the boy, he opened his eyes. Green eyes so alike to the color of the killing curse, one could say they were housing death.

The man didn't even have the time to flinch when the light rebounded from the crib, slamming straight into his chest. He could feel his soul breaking and all the small pieces turning to dust. Years of experience, hardship, hatred and madness - it all disappeared, changing his soul, destroying it. With the last of his power he flung himself towards the only host that was close enough. His crippled soul, now younger, that of a 17 year old boy, latched onto the child in the cradle. Using the connection through the lightning shaped scar, the very one he inflicted just seconds before, he submerged himself into the boy.

Their souls connected and melded together, the man's thoughts and feelings scattering like a flock of scared birds, lost in the child's mind. He gradually lost consciousness and become more and more of a passive onlooker, who could do nothing but observe. After few moments, even that was impossible for him. He went blind and was it so bad? He couldn't remember what he was supposed to see or think. He didn't even remember who he was and- the last conscious thought was lost as the man's soul broke apart, completely joining with the boy's.

That was the moment he disappeared from this world, his old body turned to no more than a pile of dust. Lord Voldemort was no more.

.

Screams echoed through the house as a frightened woman ran up the stairs and tore her way into the nursery. As she passed the door, she swayed on her feet, the horrid stench hitting her square in the face, making her stomach churn and roll uncomfortably. She saw the paint half-melted and darkened on the walls as if licked by an invisible flame, a burned hole in the middle of the floor with a pile of slivery grey ash inside, broken windows and the crib...

She ran forward and was soon looking down at the small boy, her eyes searching for any signs of life. For a moment, she thought him dead. His skin, normally very pale already, was now a whiter shade. But then his small lungs filled with air, delicate chest rising slowly. She half sobbed, and reached inside the crib to touch the skin of her son, the one they put all their hope on, the one little hero who saved them all... and then she froze, her fingers twitching centimeters above the blankets.

The boy opened his eyes and stared at her without blinking. Both eyes, one green one, the other crimson red, like the one of the monster they fought so hard to defeat, didn't move from her face, observing quietly, waiting for her to move, to say something, to make it better.

She stood like that for some time, not noticing when both her husband and mentor entered the nursery nor when they moved to stand beside he. Upon seeing the boy, whose eyes were still boring into the woman's, they too stood motionless, unable to say or do anything.

The old wizard, her mentor, moved,. He put his wrinkled hand on her shoulder and gently tugged her back. . At once she was encircled in her husband arms, his hand moving her head to rest upon his chest, trying to cover her eyes and make those mismatched ones disappear from her view. But she still could see them. She still saw them as the old wizard lifted his wand and pointed it at her only son. She saw them when, in the background noise of the wind, of the crickets' song, of the silence and of the breath leaving that chest she was so glad to find still moving few moments before, she heard the unmistakable words of the Killing Curse. She saw them watching her even when they were closed, even when the body in the cot slowly turned into ash of the same beautiful sparkling silver as the one on the floor. She saw them watching her even as both men tugged her from the room and down the stairs, from the house and far away from it, and from the cot and from the ash. But still she saw the eyes watching her. And she would for a long time.

And in the Godric's Hollow, in the nursery on the second floor at the end of the corridor on the left, near the small cot, the lamp was still lit at the side-table. The scorched curtains swayed in the wind and the cradle moved slightly from side to side, silver ash slipping through the bars. The house was silent, bar the crickets song in the front lawn.

That was the place where, Harry James Potter, the unknown hero, the unrecognized Savior of the Wizarding World, died.

A/n: Hope you liked it, R&R


	2. Chapter 2

The Boy Who Died

Chapter 01: Light. Darkness.

Fandom: Harry Potter

Rating: M

Summary: Harry Potter died that quiet night when the Dark Lord raided the Godric's Hollow. He was murdered, but not by Voldemort as all seem to think… What's going to happen to the Wizarding World when both the Dark Lord and the Savior come back and both of them are looking for vengeance?

Beta: Thanks to thejadefalcon for beta reading. His profile can be found at: h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / u / 1 0 7 2 9 6 4 /

Five months have passed since the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Wizarding World was slowly getting back to its normal routine.

There were no more strangely-clad people walking merrily on the streets, shaking hands of the clueless passersby, exclaiming happily 'It has been done!' and walking away. Nor were there owls flying in the bright daylight in every direction, carrying pieces of parchment, letters or packages, making most of the birdwatchers rub their eyes in surprise and lose faith in their own sanity. No more star-patterned spectacular lights illuminating the sky in the middle of the night or groups of celebrating for no apparent reason.

As the strangeness disappeared from the streets, the members of the Obliviator teams in the Ministry of Magic breathed a sigh of relief. Covering up all the accidents caused by celebrating wizards was a hell of a lot of work. One can't, after all, tell the Muggles the same story over and over again, even if they believed the first few times when informed of the sudden convention of fantasy fans in the town. Especially if some of those supposed 'fans' were in the age that most people connected more closely with knitting or playing with grandchildren. Waving some sticks which shoot sparks and did strange things might've been somewhat of a giveaway too. The ornithologists were also a bit skeptical when it came to believing that owls may be altering their sleeping patterns in response to the increased use of rat poison.

The attitude of the wizards also changed. People, who in the beginning were terrified, afraid to hope only to have it crushed by ruthless reality, believed the Wizarding World was free of the madman who had terrorized it for over a decade. They believed and carried the word – the Potters had rid them all of the ultimate evil, at the cost of their firstborn son.

But there was no mourning for the boy. In the end, what is the life of one child worth in exchange for the safety and happiness of them all?

Not much.

XXXXXXX

The snowstorm raged outside Godric's Hollow. Chunks of ice hit the windows with dull thuds while the front lawn was slowly buried under the snow, creating impossible to pass piles. The wind blew strongly outside, screaming around the house.

Those who dared, or simply had to go out, rushed through the snow. Cowering behind walls or trees, they pushed through the snow-drifts to reach their destinations. Only the brave ones risked Apparition, the rest walked in fear of splinching themselves in the stormy weather which refused to calm down. Grey clouds were crawling lazily, heavy with their cold burden, hiding the sun and its rays, and covering the world in twilight.

Inside the house, however, fire burned brightly, casting happily dancing patterns of shadows on the white walls. The air was warm and, for those who just entered the threshold, warm chocolate awaited in the kitchen. Christmas decorations lined the walls, ropes of red and gold tinsel hanging near the ceiling, and glowing glass orbs floated slowly through the air, shining cheerfully. In the sitting room, between two windows, stood a big, richly-decorated Christmas tree, with a pile of colorfully-wrapped presents underneath its branches. The tree was heavy with variety of sweets, both magical and Muggle ones. Mistletoe hung in few well chosen places, mostly in the doorways or near the table, awaiting its victims. In the background, one could hear the low humming of old carols coming from the small radio standing on one of the kitchen counters.

James Potter was singing quietly, his hands moving quickly, doing what they were supposed to do; add the finishing touches to one of the cakes. He didn't really mind that it looked as if someone had sat on it at some point in time or that it had soggy middle and scorched edges. Even if the cake looked a_ bit_ on the messy side, it was still edible – at least he hoped so. He moved the spoon, smearing the chocolate glazing all over the cake, the counter, and a few tiles on the floor.

When it was all done, he whistled happily and placed the cake on the counter between other finished ones. He washed his hands, wiping a part of the kitchen counter clean while he was at it. The rest was still dirty, but James decided that the house elves could clean it up- it'll make them happy to help out. Then he checked the stove to see if it was the right temperature to keep the dishes inside all nice and warm; it was. Messing up his unruly black hair with damp fingers, James nodded to himself; everything was perfect.

It was a tradition, ever since his marriage with one beautiful Miss Evans, that the Christmas dishes were always to be prepared by the members of the family and not the house elves. The creatures were sent to clean the house, decorate and what not, and as long as they stayed clear of the kitchen, it was okay for them to serve to their heart's content.

James decided it was better to ignore one of the elves, Liddy if he remembered correctly. She was now standing in the doorway, leading from the dining room to the kitchen, and was bashing her big head on the floor, while still managing to look with watery eyes at the food she most likely deemed unfit for a stray dog, not to mention her masters.

James knew that if his wife was in the kitchen, the elf wouldn't dare to do something like that. The creatures seemed to have a great deal of respect for Mrs. Potter, while her husband, the actual owner of both the house and the elves, was treated like an addition to the beloved mistress. Talk about loyalty, James thought.

So, seeing as Lily wasn't yet up and about enough to do it by herself (with slight and reluctant help from her husband) James took it upon himself to prepare the meal. He really didn't know how to cook, but never stopped him from trying. As an old member of Gryffindor House, he was proud to say that he didn't give up easily when he had decided on doing something. Unlike others, when he said the phrase 'over my dead body,' it could be taken quite seriously. Others called it being stubborn; he preferred the term 'persistent.'

Just as James was wondering what else could he do to improve the meal, the sound of the doorbell rung clearly through the air, temporarily drowning out the radio. James rushed out of the kitchen, drying his hands on the front of his grey shirt, and jogged down the hallway to open the teak front door. When he did, he grinned happily, his face almost split in half with the wide smile, brown eyes shining happily.

"Padfoot! Moony! Come in, come in!"

Outside, two men in heavy coats and colorful scarves grinned in return, hastily moving inside the hall, the taller one closing the door behind them after shaking off as much snow from his shoes as possible. Sirius Black took off his red and gold muffler, his fingers brushing lightly through his long hair, checking for the white fluff. When he got rid of it, he tugged off his long brown coat, pushed the scarf inside one of the sleeves and hung it on the cloak rack near the front door, taking care not to knock off the overcoats that were already there.

He watched Remus hug James, his cheeks and nose still beet red from the cold, traces of the melting snow darkening his dirty blond hair. Sirius laughed when Moony started to scold Prongs for not removing the snow from the path leading to the house. The fact that it hadn't stopped snowing for the last two days was lost on him as he told James off. When the smallest of the men ended his scolding, Black moved forward and embraced his long-time friend, as Lupin removed his damp coat, still muttering to himself. He exchanged an amused roll of the eyes with the host – they both knew how Remus liked to play mother hen to their whole group of friends, even when they were old enough to have children of their own.

They talked, catching up on all of the things that had happened since the last time they saw each other, a week ago, as they moved to the sitting room. Both guests expressed acute concern about their health when they learned that "they were about to dice with death by eating James' cooking.When they entered, Remus placed few shrunken objects on the floor, waved his wand and few boxes , now restored to their normall size, joined those under the tree, covered in shiny paper with different patterns, large bows and all.

James whistled happily and, wagging his eyebrows, said, "Now, now, you didn't have to bring me anything," he paused briefly for dramatic effect, "but after you did, I can only accept the gifts!"

They laughed, all knowing full well who was the person was would receive most of the presents, and Sirius mock-scowled. "Not in this lifetime, Potter!" He moved forward and put his arm round James' back, pointing at the smallest of the new presents. "That one, Darling, is yours."

"What!?" James cried out, playing along. "How come I only have the tiny one?!"

"It seems that someone was a bad boy this year and Santa decided to cut his expenses…" Moony teased and they all started to snicker.

They didn't notice the woman who came down the stairs and entered the room, her long green dressing-robe trailing on the steps behind her, smiling when she saw them fooling around. Her green eyes shined happily as she watched them joke and mock-fight with each other and then burst out laughing.

When Remus turned around to speak to James, he caught the sight of the woman and smiled, moving towards her.

"Lily!" He said happily, the other two men trotting right behind him, eager to greet her. But before Remus could even blink, Sirius jumped forward and kissed Lily loudly on the cheek, lips parting from her skin with a wet sound. James made a face.

"Ewww… Black, keep your body fluids to yourself and away from my wife, thank you very much!" Padfoot only smirked and crouched down to get a closer look at the bundle that the woman was holding. When he touched the blanket lightly a small hand moved from within, fingers curling slightly, big brown watery eyes blinking slowly in the bright light. Sirius didn't even notice when Remus greeted Lily above his head, too engrossed with the small, two week old infant before him.

"Hello there, Christopher," he murmured, caressing the soft skin of the boy's cheek with his finger, "My godson."

XXXXXXX

A long howl tore through the darkness as the Grims hunted soul after soul and dragged them towards the Veil, not minding at all the screams of horror or cries for help or mercy. The massive black hounds ran, big paws thundering on the hard ground, as they caught up to the dead who were too slow for their liking while moving towards their ultimate demise.

Some of the Grims skulked behind the dead and jumped forward to bite their ankles and legs, leaving angry, bloody marks, and then hid in the darkness waiting for the next chance for a surprise attack. Those ones were the mean beasts who delighted in not only causing pain but were also drunk on fear, living for the breathtaking feeling of absolute control over somebody else.

There were a few other hounds that lay near two still forms sitting in front of one of the Mirrors. Those just observed, knowing that this prey was not theirs to hunt, and those legs were not theirs to bite and tear. There was no fear to excite them, no horror-filled screams, just quiet words and sometimes, if the Grims were lucky, a small palm would appear and do its little wonders, scratching behind their ears, sometimes patting their heads, tracing wet noses with a fingertip or maybe, if the caretaker was not near, prodding at their claws and fangs.

The same deathly pale hands of a thin boy moved now, not towards the hounds but towards the shiny ball of light, resting in the dark-haired teen's palm. The boy's weak fingers curled in the dim glow, as his mismatched eyes blinked owlishly a few times. The child's head was resting securely at his caretaker's shoulder, as he sat in the older boy's lap, waist encircled with one strong arm, holding him in place .

He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, one thoughtful wrinkle appearing on his scarred forehead, as his fingers passed through the shining orb, not able to touch it. The light curled around his fingers and then darted round his wrist, as if playing tag, but never let him gather it in his palms. The orb changed its color from time to time, giving off green, yellow, blue or red light, but no matter what, it did not hold any warmth inside. It didn't matter; the boy was used to the cold.

After some time he lost all the interest with the toy and moved his attention to one of the countless mirrors hanging in the air in never-ending rows, disappearing from the view into the nonexistent horizon.

The child felt a cold cheek nuzzle into his black hair, the orb of light vanishing, the other arm joining the first around his waist, bringing him closer to the teen in a hug. He sighed, leaning back comfortably and watched the flat silver surface of the mirror, where a woman, three men, and an infant were sitting by the Christmas table laughing loudly, or in baby's case, lying in his mother's arms and gurgling happily from time to time. They ate, joked, smiled, talked, and breathed. They lived.

The small raven-haired boy lifted his hand and touched one of the palms resting on his abdomen. The fingers there moved instantly and entwined with his small ones, not giving any warmth, only reassurance.

"Am… I… no good?" He spoke with great difficulty, carefully constructing the sentence as he was taught and taking his time to pronounce correctly. Time was the only thing he didn't lack. "They… forgot… me?"

He felt a brush of chilly air as his guardian breathed heavily, arms and fingers tightening ever so slightly. The boy knew who his caretaker was and how he came to take that role. He knew what happened. How he died. Who killed him.

"It seems so," Tom answered finally, resting his forehead on the unruly hair of the boy in his lap. "Apparently you're not needed anymore. Forgotten. Replaced."

The boy nodded and asked, as he asked every time they watched his old family: "And… you?"

The teen smiled and closed his eyes for a brief moment remembering the green light coming straight at him and tearing its way into his very soul. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll never forget you. I'll always need you."

They sat motionless for a long time, watching people in the mirror move to open the presents, crying happily as they tore the colorful packing paper. Most of the gifts were baby things for the infant: blankets, stuffed toys, a mobile and a beautifully carved wooden crib. Some clothes for the adults, books, sweets – things not needed in daily life, their only purpose to express love and affection, neither of which were lacking in the brightly lit drawing-room.

Tom quickly grew bored with the joy he could not share and turned his eyes downwards, to observe the boy in his care. He was like a moth, not caring about the fire but loving its light. His eyes always searched those of the woman, as if he still wanted her to acknowledge that something, or someone, was missingher word. He still searched, even when the photos from his third month party, when the Healers were sure that he would live after the pre-term birth, were taken off the wall. He longed, day after day, even when the scorched crib with traces of silvery dust was taken out to the back garden and burned with all the things from the nursery on the second floor at the end of the corridor on the left. He never gave up when all traces of him ever being alive disappeared one after another, leaving empty shelves, closed doors and lighter patches of paint next to photos of friends and family. But never his.

The day, Tom knew, that the child understood that there was no coming back, no open arms waiting, was the day when the arms he was longing for chose to encircle another boy. The day when those green eyes, which never strayed his way, looked at the bundle covered with a baby blue blanket and smiled. That day the boy curled up with the Grims in a tight ball, somewhere inside the sea of dark fur, strong muscles, and deadly fangs, and stayed there for long hours – not reacting when Tom, sane enough not to try to enter the pack, called him for a long time.

And now they sat yet again, staring at that devious mirror, the child observing closely, but he paid no attention to his mother. She was now not important enough for a passing glance, not worth even a thought. His mismatched eyes were now only for the infant – the one who took his place and lived his life. The pest. The rat. The thief; the one who stole everything from him.

Tom brushed his long fingers through the silk-soft tresses of the child's hair and let his eyes stray. In other mirrors some people did the same as the Potters, happily celebrating Christmas. In others they cried or were all alone. In some they died. In some they were born. In one on the left a small girl fell down the stairs and broke her arm and two ribs, while still holding her tortoise close to her chest. Further down the same row, a grown-up man was committing adultery, his ten years younger wife waiting for him with their only son, candles burning out upon the dinner table between the meal that had long gone cold. In one next to it, a teenage boy kissed the girl of his dreams for the first time – it was wet and clumsy and awkward beyond belief and they both thought it was the best thing that ever took place under the sun.

The darkness was too thick to be lit with the dim flickering shine coming from the silver mirrors, the nonexistent air ringing with muffled voices, telling stories of their lives. Neither moved, only a sleeping Grim or two would occasionally flap its long tail or twitch a paw as if on a hunt. The cold clung to their bones like a rabid dog, never letting go, as they sat watching other peoples' lives in the land of death.


End file.
